


Help Yourself To Seconds

by monocrow



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: First Kiss, Gratuitous Talks Of Poisoning Your Hypothetical Husband, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, McDonald's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monocrow/pseuds/monocrow
Summary: "And I'm telling you," Roman says, enunciating with an empathetic wave of his burger, tousling his hair even more, "Mr. Slocum is totally out to get me. It's not my fault that's his last name! It's his mother's for choosing to take her husband's last name. And the mother before that."Janus hums good-naturedly, like he's not had to physically hold himself back from readjusting Roman's hair for him. Really, the boy is too dramatic for his own good.Roman and Janus have a completely platonic friend date in a McDonald's at 3:00 in the morning.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	Help Yourself To Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> i like writing these two because they both talk like posh victorian ladies, which i can relate to

"And I'm telling you," Roman says, enunciating with an empathetic wave of his burger, tousling his hair even more, "Mr. Slocum is totally out to get me. It's not my fault that's his last name! It's his mother's for choosing to take her husband's last name. And the mother before that."

Janus hums good-naturedly, like he's not had to physically hold himself back from readjusting Roman's hair for him. Really, the boy is too dramatic for his own good. 

"See," he keeps going, taking a quick bite of his burger instead of just waving it around like some stage prop, "this is why women's rights were the _worst._ What if it was ye olden times, and your husband's last name was _Slocum_ or _Cummings_ or something else awful. What do you do?" He asks exasperatedly, waving the burger again, drawing more attention to the pickle that's sliding dangerously close to the end of the bun. Roman plucks it before it can fall and eats it by itself.

"Kill him and take his fortune," Janus says, popping a chicken nugget in his mouth, because maybe that will show Roman what he's supposed to do with a burger. Which is not flinging your condiments all over the person across from you, for the uninformed.

It doesn't, however, and Roman just leans back in the booth and sighs tiredly (after putting his food down, thank _god_ ).

"You can't just murder your problems away," he chides, stealing a fry from Janus and ignoring a pointed glare, "and I doubt arsenic or cyanide is easy to come by."

"Rat poison. Slip it into his drink." He pauses contemplatively. "Depending on what time period we're in, I know of a couple places to get something more poignant."

Roman looks over him warily, grabbing another fry without breaking eye contact. "Are you secretly a time traveling housewife?"

"Ever heard of Guila Tofana?"

"You're not poisoning me, are you?" He asks lowly, like he's worried Janus has slipped something into the – frankly disgusting amount of – sealed salt packets he has strewn about him.

"Well," Janus says, waving a hand, "we're not in an arranged marriage in the 1800s. Also, your last name isn't Slocum or Cummings, which I suppose is a point in you favor."

"It's Prince," he supplies happily, like it's something to be proud of. He probably thinks it is – he always used it as an excuse to choose first, when they were kids, or to just get to what he wanted. There's a certain childlike glee to it.

Janus takes a sip of his soda.

"Maybe you'd actually be a Prince back then, considering how surnames were more titles than actual names," he pauses to let the carbonation burn his throat, "which would also be another point in your favor. I'd hardly like being a peasant."

Roman pauses, and then promptly forgets all basic motor functions and starts choking on the one, singular, french fry in his mouth.

"Oh fuck," he says, with strangled laughs between gasps of air. "Do you think his last name is Slocum, cause... y'know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

He does, actually, but he'd rather not picture their teacher's sex life in his mind's eye. He has an unfortunately vivid imagination; helpful in math and debate, but pairs awfully with the equally vivid imagination of Roman – and Remus, but Janus just tries to tune him out as often as possible when they get to talks like these, which is all too often. His suggestions always seem to be more cursed than Roman's by some unwritten law. People seem to take Janus for a saint, being able to tolerate it without having a carbon copy sense of humor. He doesn't tolerate it, really – he doesn't even listen. He just pretends to be on some far away, picturesque beach with a martini.

Roman pounds on his chest, frowns, then sighs. "Whatever, be a party pooper." 

Roman takes a dramatically petulant bite out of his burger. Janus eats another chicken nugget and rolls his eyes, thrumming his fingers against the still sticky table, looking over to the rest of the restaurants company – to be polite while Roman chews, definitely not to avoid noticing how pronounced his jawline is, how his throat bobs when he swallows. The McDonald's is mostly empty, save for a middle aged man in a pullover, hunched above a Big Mac with a gratuitous amount of ketchup packets. 

Fair enough, is all Janus can think to that. 

It's dark out, if that wasn't a given for midnight McDonald's friend dates, with a mostly empty parking lot full of mostly empty cars. If he squints through the glare on the window, he can see a car in the back of the lot. There's a couple nestled in it, reclining in their seats, feet on the dashboard over a shared milkshake. That isn't to different from him, right now, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to Roman and eating, under a hanging lamp that's in dire need of a good dusting – that's what he wants to think, at least. But that's a dangerous string to pull on when they're sharing body heat in a closed off booth, so he cuts it off.

"Hypothetically speaking, would you murder me?" Roman asks after the moment passes and he's swiped one of the grease stained napkins over his face.

"Like, right now? Because I'd outing myself in a public restaurant." 

"No, no," he laughs, and swallows the food in his mouth. "As in a, _hypothetical,_ arranged marriage in the 1800s."

Janus hums. As much as he may like Roman – completely against his better judgement, might he add – he doubts that'd he'd be taken with anyone that he was forced to marry (although hearing marriage and Janus and _Roman_ come out all in the same breath does things to him that he hates). Or anyone he was forced be around, for that matter. There's a reason that all of his teacher's up until grade school though that he was the spawn of Satan, a mischievous child that liked to loosen the nubs of all of their fountain pens. 

(Which was and still is true – all things he still does if he particularly dislikes someone, but he's not nearly that obvious anymore, because where's the fun in that? And it's rarely with teachers, since he's not particularly fond of the idea of getting _malevolent prankster_ stamped over his permanent record, as he goes for self preservation first and foremost. Although he can make an exception if they try and argue that capes are out of fashion, because they just have it coming to them at that point.)

"It depends," he eventually decides on, rolling his straw through the plastic lid. It squeaks in the way he always finds incredibly annoying when it's anyone doing it but himself. "I doubt that you would be exactly the same person centuries in the past."

Roman hums. "I suppose. I'd like to think I wouldn't be an awful husband, even back then," he laughs, and there's that sort of faraway dreamy quality to it, the kind he gets they're staring at the night sky together – usually with the aid of their phone's and the ever convenient selfie camera – when it's late and they can't sleep, when Roman can't help but comment on all of the different constellations and universes and discoveries that are left for them out there. 

It gives Janus the distinct impression that Roman is caught up on more than the just historical fashion sense and period, when royal titles were used for more than just figureheads.

That twinkle always makes his stomach drop, makes him want to push his luck, ask Roman something romantic, sweep him off his feet at 3:00 a.m. in a _McDonald's_ of all places – the entire concept being something Remus would positively _adore,_ in his weird Remus way – but that follows with the subsequent risk of coming out of his shell and exposing a weakness, and trying to keep the upper hand in those kinds of confrontations alway feels like trying to catch sand that keeps between his fingers, not unlike sheets from a waterfall.

Preservation has always been his thing, he thinks, eating a chicken nugget that's starting to get rubbery as it cools. He's content with doing nothing about the almost implications born from his own wishful thinking, if it means he gets to keep sitting in shoddy restaurants talking about the 1800s and unfortunate surnames with the object of his affections.

"I don't think you'd be an awful husband," Janus says – not a particularly dangerous answer, just a simple observation that can be taken anyway – after letting himself simmer in his own feelings and the bittersweet impermanence of it all.

Roman waggles his eyebrows, back to his usual pep, no more starry eyes and daydreams. "Why don't you find out?"

Janus gaps, holding a hand over his heart, careful to avoid brushing the salt on his fingertips on his shirt. "Why Roman, are you _proposing?_ to _me?"_

It's an almost genuine question, one chalked full of ironies.

"Maybe I am, m'lady," he says with an outstretched hand.

"Gross," Janus curls his lip, dropping the bravado. "Don't stoop that low. I might have an aneurism if I see you in a fedora."

"I think someone with looks as good as mine could pull it off," Roman says, framing his face with the back of his hand, throwing an exaggerated wink just for the sake of it. It's a completely stupid and stale gesture, and Janus would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. Disgusting.

"No one can pull off a fedora."

"Bet."

"Okay," Janus's fingers brush the bottom of the empty box of nuggets, so he moves over to the last of the fries, "I have a cheetah print fedora with your name on it."

Roman pauses from where he was licking up a bit of mustard off the curve of his thumb, just above the knuckle and up to the tip, then takes the pad of it between his lips. Janus looks pointedly away.

"Pardon?"

"A cheetah print fedora. I'm assuming you'll be wearing it in our next class – and, actually, it might be a bit small, now that I'm thinking about it."

Roman grabs a napkin. "That's not necessary," he laughs uncomfortably. "I'm sure we both know that my _very_ charming face can pull it off, so there's no need to test it."

Janus nods understandingly. "Yes, you do have a rather large head."

"Wh— I don't have a large head! My head is completely proportionate to the rest of my body!"

"Then try on the hat and you can see for yourself."

"I—" Roman starts, then cuts himself off with a glower. "You _tricked_ me."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he feigns, swirling what's left of his soda like it's wine and he's a lain back on a chaise longue instead of a booth with tacky plastic backing.

"Hey," he says, sulking instead of glowering, "you're the one that owns a cheetah print fedora."

Janus pauses; sighs. "It was a gift from Remus, but whatever you say. Take me away, officer."

"From Remus? When?"

Janus shrugs and eats the last of his french fries – they'll probably be leaving soon, unless they decide to stick around until morning, just talking. Provided an employee doesn't kick them out at that point.

It probably wouldn't be a good idea, given how sleep laden he feels, watching the lamp sway above their heads ever so slightly, leaving sunny imprints on the backs of his eyelids. He blinks his eyes shut and lets the lights dance until they start to fade. He tends to let things slip when he's tired. His tongue is heavy and too big and not quite as silver as he's used too; there's too much vulnerability in that.

"I don't really remember, it's been a while. It might have been for my birthday," he drawls.

"Oh, okay," Roman says, and... it's strange, because it's like there's a weird relaxation coming over him – Janus would say that it looked like he was jealous, for a moment, and he's just not overcoming that. Janus would blame it on a trick of the light and the tired weight over his eyes, nothing more, but he has always prided himself on his ability to read people. "Cool," Roman says, not very coolly.

Wishful thinking, Janus reminds himself, and takes another sip of his soda. 

Roman has been done eating for a while, Janus realizes. He'd finished off his food some point when Janus had been too focused on Roman himself (and not getting food flung on him; maybe Roman's table manners had miraculously improved in the last ten minutes to the point they were unnoticeable), with the burger wrapper tossed off onto their trey, and a napkin wound through his greasy fingers.

"Well," Janus says, tossing an empty fry carton onto the trey next to Roman's wrapper, "since we seem to be done here, are you ready to go?"

Roman wrings his fingers through the napkin a bit tighter. "Sure."

They collect their trash, depositing it with the rest of it. Janus's joints pop when he stands, and it's only then that he realizes just how _long_ they've been sitting there, chatting over bad food with meaningless banter. He doesn't get to dwell on it long before they're dumping the trash and walking outside, Roman holding the door open to him with a dramatic bow, Janus giving him an equally dramatic eye roll.

He likes this, the way things are.

There's a soft glow coming from the streetlights above them, making everything drip with a warm syrupy color that Janus just wants to sink into, to let it wash over him in honey. The light makes it look like there's a halo over Roman's head – and, completely irrationally, it's _beautiful._ It should be ugly, with the cast iron of the post itself and the light pollution, chipping paint and wavering metal, the way it lights up the rest of the parking lot full of holes and litter. But it's _not_ – at least while it illuminates Roman's annoyingly pretty face. He looks much better than he rightly should, with the light on him at this angle, and at this time of night. He's starting to think what Roman said about his unflappable good looks is true.

Janus hopes to whatever god that may be out there that there isn't any of Roman's burger hiding in his hair – casual intimacy of the whole affair be damned, he won't forgive Roman if he's decided to turn Janus into his newest art project.

They've both just sort of stopped there, watching each other. Roman has this soft look on his face that Janus hopes he isn't mirroring – his stupid, tired and leaden tongue just wants him to talk, to kiss Roman silly _here_ of all places, where it's much too chilly just to be standing around staring, and far too open with the windows to their backs.

Still, he wants.

"Roman, I—" he says, but his voice sounds so disgustingly soft and vulnerable that he cuts himself off before he can say more. "Sorry," he says, "it's nothing. Lets go."

He won't wreck things here, now. It's too delicate of a night to ruin it with sharp words – maybe he'll tell Roman, someday, when he's less afraid of the consequences of the truth. It just so happens that today isn't that day, and he's alright with that— _should_ be alright with that.

"Wait," Roman says, and he's caught the sleeve of his coat before Janus has even realized that he's turned around. "I— I have something I need to tell you."

"Oh?"

Wishful thinking keeps bubbling up. It's almost sickening, the way he can't help the catch in his breath, the skip of his heart. For all he knows, Roman could be calling off their entire friendship right here, leaving Janus alone in the parking lot to walk home with the squeak of car tires – but, no. Roman isn't an overly cruel person. If he is planning cutting off everything, ending it now, he wouldn't leave Janus alone. No matter how awkward the ride back to Janus's apartment, Roman couldn't – _wouldn't_ – do that in good conscious.

Janus would know. It's one of the reasons he likes him.

"I've been meaning to tell you for awhile." There's a faint dusting of pink over his cheeks. It's cute.

"Then tell away."

"I like you," Roman says. "Romantically," he amends, after a thick beat of silence, where the only thing he can hear is the lone car passing them by. 

Janus can't really find it in himself to focus on what he says after that, just the way the streetlight looks in the dark, how Roman's cheekbones catch in that light it casts. 

"Oh," he says, because his words still aren't working all that well, which is certainly strange for him.

_Roman likes him._

"Yeah," Roman says. "Sorry, I'm— this makes things awkward, doesn't it? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything," he runs a hand through his hair – it manages to tame down some of the flyaways that Janus had been so focused on earlier, "at least tonight. I shouldn't have. Sorry."

"No—" Janus starts, because even if his tongue isn't working as well as it usually does, he doesn't want to lose this moment. "Don't apologize. I do... I do too."

It's certainly not a flowery confession by any means, but it seems to suffice if the way Roman's eyes widen is anything to go by. 

Janus can't stop thinking about how beautiful he looks like this, blushing and wide eyed and lit up, so Janus kisses him.

It's completely clumsy and messy and they're both caught off guard, but they both lean into it once they realize what's going on. Janus pushes them past the window that they've been standing in front of for an embarrassingly long amount of time, back against the chipping bricks that line the walls and the litter scattered across the ground that missed the trash can.

It's probably the least romantic thing that either of them have done, and when it comes to the scheme of grand gestures it's pathetic, but Janus can't really find it in himself to mind. His heart clenches and his lips might be a bit chapped, but he just wants to sink his claws into the sickly sweet moment and hold onto it for as long as he's allowed.

But, unfortunately, Roman has to pull back for air. Janus has the faintest inkling of air deprivation, exhaustion tugging at his eyes, but he's fine with ignoring it – maybe he's just trying to avoid the confrontation that comes with looking back at Roman.

Janus leans back and opens his eyes.

Roman looks impossibly soft, which does completely unfair things to Janus's heart. He cups his hands over Janus's jaw, then his cheeks, pressing soft little kisses to his face.

"I think it's a little late for any overly romantic gestures," Janus says, but he doesn't push him off, letting him continue with the saccharine ministrations. Maybe he likes them.

"You kissed me," Roman states.

"I did," Janus says, because he's not sure what kind of point Roman is trying to make by stating facts.

"So," he says between another peck, "I'm paying you back."

"I think a kiss is a mutual thing."

Roman hums; he slips so easily from awkward into romantic, like he was ripped straight from one of the shitty romance novels Janus always passes at the Dollar Store. But Janus is fine with it, focusing on the kisses instead of the idea that this is all just a dream that he'll wake up from any moment now. He feels pliant and floaty, like he's swimming in a pool in the sky. But the water will have to drain at some point, he thinks.

"We should probably be leaving soon," he says, pushing Roman away by his chin once his kisses start turning a little less soft. Roman whines, but it's easy enough disentangle themselves.

"Am I taking you home?" Roman asks, wiping dust off his shoulders that isn't actually there.

"What are you implying? You should really take a girl on a date first."

Roman flushes, but gives him a broad smile all the same. "Well, who said this wasn't a date?" 

"I think all parties have to be aware of it being a date for it to _actually_ be a date."

"Pfft, specifics," Roman laughs, awkward, running a hand across the nape of his neck. "Um," he starts, "do you want to hold hands?"

_Oh, Roman Prince, what a romantic._

Janus rolls his eyes (painfully fondly) and holds out a hand. Roman goes to grab it with the hand on his neck, thinks better of it, then clasps Janus's slightly chilled between his own. 

He's warm.


End file.
